I entreat you to
give me the opportunity."
Ruth did not reply. She would not acknowledge that she heard; but
she trembled nevertheless, for the well-remembered voice was low
and soft, and had yet its power to thrill. She earnestly desired
to know why and how he had left her. It appeared to her as if
that knowledge could alone give her a relief from the restless
wondering that distracted her mind, and that one explanation
could do no harm.
"No!" the higher spirit made answer; "it must not be."
Ruth and the girls had each an umbrella. She turned to Mary, and
said--
"Mary, give your umbrella to Mr. Donne, and come under mine." Her
way of speaking was short and decided; she was compressing her
meaning into as few words as possible. The little girl obeyed in
silence. As they went first through the churchyard stile Mr.
Donne spoke again.
"You are unforgiving," said he. "I only ask you to hear me. I
have a right to be heard, Ruth! I won't believe you are so much
changed as not to listen to me when I entreat."
He spoke in a tone of soft complaint. But he himself had done
much to destroy the illusion which had hung about his memory for
years, whenever Ruth had allowed herself to think of it. Besides
which, during the time of her residence in the Benson family, her
feeling of what people ought to be had been unconsciously raised
and refined; and Mr. Donne, even while she had to struggle
against the force of past recollections, repelled her so much by
what he was at present, that every speech of his, every minute
they were together, served to make her path more and more easy to
follow.
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